


Hungover Demon

by SnakesandTea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Hangover, No Smut, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Character, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Vomiting, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnakesandTea/pseuds/SnakesandTea
Summary: Crowley forgets to sober up after a long night of drinking. Aziraphale lovingly cares for him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	Hungover Demon

Aziraphale came downstairs to find Crowley sprawled out on his couch. He vaguely recalled telling him goodnight as the demon threw back another bottle of scotch. Aziraphale shook his head and busied himself around the bookshop until his demon stirred. “How are you feeling, my dear?” He asked softly.

Crowley made an effort to get himself more up-right and immediately regretted it. His mouth was dry and tasted like it was full of bitter cotton. The gloomy, overcast day shined far too brightly through the open shades. He gave the room a quick once-over, not seeing his sunglasses, and growled. “Like shit, Angel.”

Aziraphale tsked but refrained from verbally scolding him. A hangover seemed a just punishment for forgetting to sober up last night. He sat beside the demon who appeared to have turned a worrying shade of green. “Are you all right?”

Crowley held up a finger and turned away from him. He swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to prevent the inevitable. But it was too late. Crowley doubled over, spilling the contents of his stomach across the sofa.

“Oh, dear boy.” He rubbed his demon’s back while Crowley dry heaved. Aziraphale looked at the ceiling and grimaced as the sour stench hit his nose. He tried to ignore the sound of vomit splattering on the previously spotless cushion and, likely, dripping to the ornate carpet beneath.

The pressure in his skull was wildly exacerbated by puking. He opened his mouth and shut it again as more bile climbed his throat. Crowley sat, taking deep breaths, trying to get his stomach to settle. He closed his eyes, and though he wouldn’t admit it, the demon was deeply comforted by Aziraphale’s hand on his back. When he finally trusted himself to speak, his voice was raw and scratchy. “’M sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he replied softly. The demon shrank under his gaze, looking very small and rather put-out. Worry overrode Aziraphale’s slight irritation about the mess. He gave him a reassuring smile.

Color flooded Crowley’s cheeks. He wanted little more than to get up, flee the bookshop, and possibly not look the angel in the eyes for a good century or two. Unfortunately, he’d have to drown in his embarrassment from the confines of the couch, as his legs had been reduced to jelly. Crowley snapped his fingers leaving everything clean.

Aziraphale smiled and shook his head. “Although greatly appreciated, that wasn’t necessary, my dear.” He drew the shades. Truth be told, the angel was unsure just how well Crowley could see in the dark, but even a cloudy day could be absolute hell to a human with a hangover. The relief on his demon’s face answered a great many of his wonderings. He handed him a pillow and blanket, “Can I get you anything else?”

Crowley politely declined and laid down on the couch, sighing as his head sank into the pillow. He didn’t want to impose any more than he already had. Covering himself with the tartan blanket, he slowly drifted to sleep.

The angel smiled sadly. He reorganized a few shelves, checking on Crowley every-so-often. Aziraphale soon realized he hadn’t accomplished much of anything, his thoughts engulfed by fretting over his demon. After draping a second blanket over a shivering Crowley, he attempted to placate his worry by settling into a nearby chair, book in hand. Aziraphale presumed it unlikely he’d actually read. But, he reasoned, it was better to have an alibi in case Crowley woke. The angel didn’t have long to wait. He heard a garbled choke followed by, what could only be described as a violent gush of liquid. Unfortunately, he hadn’t the forethought to provide his demon with a bucket; and to do so now seemed rather pointless. Aziraphale waited patiently for the terrible fountain to stop before approaching him, taking great lengths to avoid the expansive brownish puddle. “Crowley?” He was met with unfocused, glazed eyes. “Dear?” The angel pressed as he rubbed his shoulder.

The demon tried to answer. He opened his mouth, only to have more of the foul substance spew forth in place of words. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he brought it up.

Aziraphale closed his eyes as Crowley was sick on his trousers and shoes. Nevertheless, he kept his hand on the demon’s shoulder, lightly squeezing it in an effort to comfort him. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly.

The moment Crowley finished, he fell slack against the couch, out cold again.

Despite his ruined clothes, Aziraphale chuckled to himself. Only his demon could turn his stomach inside-out and promptly go back to sleep. Perhaps it was for the best he didn’t remember, the angel thought, with Crowley being who he was and all – the knowledge that he’d vomited on Aziraphale might discorporate him.

Once everything was cleaned, and he’d changed (into an almost identical three-piece-suit), the angel resumed his post. A golden eye opened, staring at him. “Yes? Can I get you something?” The response was so quiet, Aziraphale nearly missed what he said.

“You.” His voice cracked, almost begging for his angel. Was Crowley any more conscious, he’d have blushed a deep crimson.

His heart ached seeing the mix of agony and fear on his face. “Of course, dear.” He helped Crowley sit up, just enough to squeeze between the demon and the arm of the couch, and eased him back down, letting his head rest in his lap. Aziraphale didn’t want to make him uncomfortable – the last thing he needed was for his demon to bolt. “Is this okay?” He felt Crowley nod against his leg and relaxed.

The demon rubbed his face against the soft material of Aziraphale’s trousers, trying to get comfortable. His head still hurt and closing his eyes made it feel better, but it also made him dizzy. He stared, half-lidded at the books across from him. Crowley hoped that focusing on the titles would still the room a bit. It didn’t. Miserably, he shut his eyes again, and, instead turned his attention to the calming scent of his angel. He allowed himself to get lost in it as sleep washed over him. Crowley dreamed, unaware of the hours that passed before he woke with a start. “Shit–“ He managed before he was redecorating the bookshop rug.

Aziraphale sighed and steadied him. He whispered reassurances as his demon vomited. His brow furrowed with concern; he had never, personally, been so sick after a night of drinking. But, then again, his demon tended to imbibe far more alcohol than he.

Breathing hard, Crowley leaned back and collapsed against his angel. He didn’t have the strength to move or even acknowledge any of the shame burning in his cheeks.

Nearly gagging on the smell, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the mess vanished. He rubbed the demon’s arms as the frantic breaths evened out into quiet snores. The angel smiled and adjusted the blankets across them, content to watch over Crowley while he slept. He relished the idea of continuing to hold the demon in his arms – as the prickly serpent rarely consented to so much as a handshake. Aziraphale lovingly stroked the short ginger hair, hoping Crowley found it as calming as he did. He kept his perfectly manicured fingers amidst the thick locks as his demon snored soundly in his embrace.

A couple hours later Crowley woke, his head spinning. Heat rising in his throat. He struggled off the couch and his angel, searching for an appropriate receptacle.

Aziraphale saw the panic in his demon’s eyes. His voice laced with concern, he asked, “Crowley?”

He shook his head, determined to make it to the bathroom, a trashcan, maybe the street. Crowley took the stairs two at a time as bile dripped leaked from the corners of his mouth. He tripped, his toes clipping the top step. Crowley fell to his knees, the impact jarred his stomach, and a bit of bile splattered on the floor. He snapped his mouth shut

Aziraphale, following so closely, nearly ran over his demon. He knelt beside him. “Crowley, it’s all right,” he said softly, “Just do it here.”

The demon looked up. He could see the toilet. Crowley shook his head again, tears prickling in his eyes with the effort.

It pained him to see his demon so miserable. “It’s only me, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered in an attempt to assuage Crowley’s pride.

His shoulders sagged in defeat as he brought up mouthful after mouthful, the revolting puddle spreading rapidly across the hardwood floor. Crowley despised how pathetic he must look as he hurled in front of his angel yet again. For whatever reason, that blasted, wonderful principality was still by his side murmuring reassurances. “That has to be the last of it,” he choked.

“Well, you did have a fair bit to drink, my dear.” Bloodshot eyes met his. Aziraphale’s voice softened as he handed him a cup of water, “Here you are.”

Crowley rasped a quick “thanks.” He took a sip, sighing as it cooled his throat. The mess ‘miraculously’ disappeared and he gave Aziraphale a look. “You’re doing too much, angel.”

Unafflicted by the demon’s glare, he replied with a small smile, “I couldn’t let it just sit there. Come on, up you go.” Aziraphale took Crowley lightly by the arm, steadying him once he was on his feet. He guided him back downstairs and settled him on the couch. As he started to walk away, a slender hand grasped his arm.

“Angel.” He resented the desperation in his voice. But it had been so long since he’d been this sick from drink.

“Yes?”

His cheeks flushed red as he looked between the angel and the sofa. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

Aziraphale bit back the smile threatening to break across his face. “Very well, my dear.” He joined the demon on the couch, cradling him against his chest once again. “Better?” The angel received an affirmative nod.

They stayed curled up together for hours. Aziraphale studied Crowley as he slept. He smiled as the worry lines on his demon’s forehead softened as he dozed. The angel found himself reminiscing about all their delightful trysts. The ever-flowing drinks from Rome to Paris and, never once before had Crowley allowed the angel to take care of him when he was hungover. Oh, that wily serpent had certainly forgotten to sober up on more than one occasion. Even he, himself, was guilty of doing so a few times. But Crowley always claimed he was ‘fine’ and dismissed the angel’s concern. Aziraphale hoped it meant this time was different; that, perhaps, his demon might stay. Admittedly, he was a bit sad when he felt him stir. “Did you have a good rest, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley unhinged his jaw as he yawned. “Yessssss.” He sat up, stretched his long limbs, and rolled his shoulders, as though shrugging off the sleep. No longer squinting against the dim light, the demon opened the curtains and was pleased to find the brightness was little more than a nuisance. A throat clearing to his right startled him back to the present. Crowley took the dainty teacup his angel offered. His brows furrowed as he sniffed at the steaming liquid.

“Green tea with a bit of mint. It helps calm the stomach,” he explained. Aziraphale smiled as the demon took a tentative sip.

The concoction left a pleasant burn in its wake, not unlike whiskey, as it traced a path to his stomach. “Not bad, Angel.” He turned his attention to the delicate china in his hands. It looked starkly out of place in his spindly fingers. A thing of beauty and grace beheld by an unworthy entity. Crowley drained the rest of the cup quickly, suddenly rather embarrassed about the whole affair. He rapidly decided he shouldn’t be the angel’s problem. Of course, Aziraphale was too nice to throw him out, even when he hurled on his sofa. But that didn’t mean Crowley _should_ stay. He gingerly set the cup on a side table, stood, and cleared his throat. The angel was regarding him patient intrigue, obviously waiting for him to speak. Ngk!

Aziraphale had been watching the demon closely. He’d noticed Crowley’s scowl as he stared into his tea. The angel worried that, perhaps, he wasn’t a fan, despite the compliment. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it came—Crowley’s concentration was much too severe for tea. The demon’s face tended to tell him more than his words ever did. Particularly in moments, such as this, when he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Aziraphale watched as a blush leaked through Crowley’s angular cheeks and his pupils contracted to dangerously thin slits in their seas of gold. He crossed the room and rested a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “My dear, you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about,” Aziraphale began softly. “I am delighted you allowed me to be here for you – to care for you.” The angel knew how much his demon despised displaying anything he considered to be weak. They were drifting closer and closer to the door as he spoke. His chest ached to keep Crowley around. The past day had been a magnificent dream, from which, he was not yet ready to wake up. “You’re always welcome here,” he concluded with a small, albeit, somewhat sad, smile.

He shook his head, amused and amazed that his angel knew just what to say. Crowley’s heart sank as he reached for the door handle. His eyes found Aziraphale’s again. Maybe he imagined a hint of pain in the deep, blue depths. He blinked and whatever he thought he saw had vanished. “Thanks again.” Crowley slid his sunglasses on, thankful they hid some of the emotion his face was betraying. “And Angel, don’t mention this – any if it – to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,” he replied cheerfully. Aziraphale attempted to stamp down any flicker of hope that Crowley might stay. He knew damn well that it was too risky.

“I mean it. If my lot found out I spent the past ten hours semi-conscious in an ethereal being’s lap, they’d have my head.”

He rolled his eyes. “You could call it a temptation, if you must.”

The demon’s eyebrows raised. “And were you? Tempted, I mean.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Clearly,” He said in jest, despite the truth of the statement. The angel had been quite tempted, in fact, he still rather wished Crowley would stay longer. Aziraphale had half a mind to call attention to the sprinkle of rain that had only just started falling, or the slight chill in the air – anything that meant his demon wouldn’t cross the threshold; because once he stepped out into the night, it was over – whatever ‘it’ was.

“Hm, it looks at bit damp out.”

He glanced around, as though just noticing the weather and hastily agreed, “it is damp!”

“You know how I bloody hate rain.”

“Right, right. That chilly air isn’t good for snakes. And I’ve just put on another pot of coffee, it’d be a pity to waste it.” Aziraphale was downright giddy as Crowley shut the bookshop door and sauntered back to the sofa. Yes, this time seemed quite different, indeed.

“All right, Angel; now about that coffee?” He smiled, leaning back against the arm of the couch.


End file.
